


the lie that saved us

by Ashling



Category: Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Week of Ficlets, Week of Ficlets: Unforgotten 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Conor goes monster hunting.
Relationships: Conor Brennan/Jenny Spain/Pat Spain
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	the lie that saved us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



I had only one shot, so I didn’t indulge in any stupid shit. No stocks, racehorses, lotto. I got one minute of luxury, and when it was over, I ducked into a coffeeshop and closed my eyes, trying to remember the way a kid licks drops of sugary juice from their popsicle wrapper: Jenny’s bare arms, golden and strong around Jack, Emma’s obedient kiss to her mother’s cheek, the pink plaid backpack, the solid thunk of the car door closing. The flash of sun off shiny black paint as they drove away. Whatever else happened, I would always have that.

If ever anyone had a right to kill, I think I had a right to kill him. Even if I had told him everything, I couldn’t make him understand how unbearably fucking urgent it was. So I showed up at his shitty little flat, lured him to my own timeline with a (mostly true) story about time travel fixing the future, and knocked him unconscious. An injection, total surprise. The body in the river would kept things tidy, and when the news said it was a suicide, they’d only be half wrong. I did kill myself. That much is true.

When I “dropped by” the house with ice cream for the kids, Pat brought up the beast almost immediately. It was spine-chilling. And I barely had to hint to get him on board with a hunting sleepover, some Neanderthal boys’ night in. He beamed at the idea.

When I told Jenny to take the kids to Fiona’s, she didn’t even question it. She leaned in—she smelled like apple blossom soap—and whispered, “You don’t believe him, do you? You don’t think it’s real?”

“Of course not,” I said.

She hugged me tight and held on for a long time.

Hours of nothing. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect my primary concern to be restricting Pat’s beer intake. He gleamed with excitement; I only got sleepier. And then he shot up—”I heard it!”—and charged into the attic with only his phone.

It could have been a nail that scratched his arm and made him drop his phone, it could have been branches on the roof that made those sounds, it could have been anything that made him trip and brought me down too. It couldn’t have been anything but his hands around my throat.

It sounds like a stupid thing to do with my literal last breath, but you have to understand: I was happier in this timeline, with Pat trying to kill me, than I had been in my own. When I kissed him, I didn’t expect it to break the hold, I just wanted him to understand. He tasted like blood—mine—and fear—his, and then he kissed me back, and I could breathe again.

Later, still half on top of me, he asked, “Was it real?” and I said, “Yes.”

On the way out, he let me hold his hand.

Rage, not genius, not instinct, not insight, made me burn the house. It had hurt Pat, it had hurt Jenny, it had hurt Emma and Jack and most of all it had hurt _me—_ it took everything we had and mocked us as it stood there whole, whole like I wasn’t, like Jenny and the children weren’t, like Pat wasn’t. Pat who had kissed me back. If not for the house, he wouldn’t have done that. So I said we should smoke the beast out, but I knew what I was doing. I wanted the whole thing to burn too.

I thought I wouldn’t get away with it, but Pat didn’t stop me. When the walls caught fire, he stared with glassy eyes; when I asked him if it was all right, he put his arm around me. Like I was the one needed comforting. The cops came and went (it was Pat’s property, after all) and he didn’t move. I can’t remember if he even blinked. Jenny must have heard somehow, because she drove back and ran to us. I knew the kids were with Fiona, but it wasn’t until the roof caved in that I finally felt safe.

I kept waiting for Pat or Jenny to ask me again if it was real, and I was terrified to tell the wrong truth. I kept waiting to get out of there, because my job was done. But Fiona’s place was cramped enough, and I still had a pretty big futon. 

Six a.m. and I couldn’t sleep; Pat mumbled in his dreams. I couldn’t get up, either; Jenny’s head was making my arm go numb. So I stayed.

In the morning, when Pat saw the mold on the ceiling, he said, “I’ll have to see about getting a dehumidifier.”


End file.
